


that final gasp, that look

by storyqdayx5d



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M, Light Bondage, Orgasm Denial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-28
Updated: 2014-01-28
Packaged: 2018-01-10 07:43:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1156949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storyqdayx5d/pseuds/storyqdayx5d
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The girl was grown now, wasn't she?</p>
            </blockquote>





	that final gasp, that look

**Author's Note:**

> "That final gasp, that look of peace. And part of you is desperate to know: What's it like? Where does it lead you? And now you see, that's the secret. Not the punch you didn't throw or the kicks you didn't land. She really wanted it. Every Slayer has a death wish. Even you." 
> 
> "Fool for Love"   
> S05E07

He hit her sometimes.

He could tell by the way she carried herself: the tightness in her thin shoulders, the squinting of her eyes, as if waiting, as if longing for a fight; he could tell when she needed it. So he’d call her out on her bullshit, provoke her, until she’d take a swing at him, and he’d punch her right back in her pretty little nose, and then she’d let loose, really pummel him.

She didn’t know he knew it’s what got her juices flowing.

She didn’t know how much she needed it.

He knew, though.

She didn’t get it much, with that idiot soldier boy, who turned tail and fled just as soon as he’d gotten a whiff of how much power there was in the girl. And when she was in high school, when she was still mooning over that sodding poofster,

_(and don’t think he didn’t know she still mooned after him: Angel came around just often enough that she couldn’t quite forget him, and in fact didn’t want to)_

she couldn’t work out the kinks in a more effective way, lest he lose his precious soul, so she ran, and she trained, and she slayed, round and round the cemetery every night, and the itch never quite got scratched.

But the girl was grown now, wasn’t she? She’d fucked and she’d loved and she’d fought and she’d died, and she’d tasted heaven and been ripped back out, and she’d come back to Sunnyhell different. Changed. Darker. Less able to ignore her darkness.

He loved it.

_She_ hated it, of course. That was the real reason the Slayer spent her time moping about from one end of this bloody town to the other, killing things that needed killing, and pummeling him whenever she felt like it. She hated the darkness. Gone was the golden girl she’d been. Even at her worst, before Glory, before her mum died — even when she’d stuck a sword through her first and best lover

_(Spike frowned at that; he knew her, he did, knew the way she thought — about Angel. About Riley. And him - he knew that too.)_

and had gone to L.A. and then hell and back, she’d returned a golden girl, a little smaller, maybe, quieter; a little more weary, but no less decidedly good. But that’s the thing about growing up, isn’t it? It makes us all into demons, it makes us harder, and meaner, and _more_.

Spike never had a chance to grow up, really, so the change happened after he’d died. When he was alive, he was a pathetic creature — spending days and nights writing soppy poetry for a woman who couldn’t stand the sight of him, indulged by a mother who probably wished he’d just get typhoid and die. And then there was Dru. She’d showed him his own darkness, had taken his hand and led him to it.

_Buffy_ was walking hand in hand with hers already, but she liked to remain stubbornly unaware of it. Spike knew, though. He saw. He saw the way her nostrils flared when she hit him, when she knocked him to the floor and kicked him while he was down. Well, he’d been the lover of a crazy bitch of a vampire for over a hundred years: a little rough treatment wasn’t going to do him any harm. And he could smell the change the came over the Slayer when she beat him. He could smell it through her jeans, through those tight leather pants she sometimes wore. She had given up the short little numbers she’d sported in high school

_(those were no small reason why he’d loved fighting with her so — all those high kicks)_

but it made no difference. The violence, the way she had power over him — and she did, there was no doubt about that; she’d win in a fight, that much was certain, which meant, of course, that all these years - even before the chip - something in her had wanted him around — It turned her on. Sometimes he’d knock her feet out from under her, and she’d scramble to straddle him, and he could feel it, that hot, living, burning core of her. He’d thought it would burn him alive in that building they’d demolished, that heat of hers, it had come off of her in waves that night, and he’d thought, momentarily, of the heat from the sun. It’d been so long since he’d even thought of it. Not the burning, blistering heat that he felt now in sunlight — the heat of his flesh coming apart, turning to dust, blowing away in the wind. No. This was beyond that. It was a bright, melting, honeythick hotness. Scalding, yes, but oh, what a burn. Essence of Buffy Summers. Bright and burning and compacted into the tiny, fighting pearl of her center, and surrounded by a howling, clawing darkness that, every time they fucked, came closer to the surface.

The handcuffs had been her idea. She’d chained him to his own bed and walked around his lavishly decorated crypt while he lay there, hard, throbbing even, following her with his eyes. She was fully clothed, her heels tapping against the stone floor, her hair spilling down her back, gold, gold, gold. She’d pulled off her gloves one at a time and dropped them behind her, where they fell with a sensual slap, almost perverse in the way it echoed. She shrugged out of her jacked, stepped out of her skirt, pulled her sweater over her head, carelessly ignoring the way his cock was twitching with every inch of skin she bared. She unhooked her bra and pulled down her panties, and then she was naked but for the boots that rose to her knees, and he was leaking onto his own belly, _god_ could the girl make him come just standing naked across the room? His nails bit into his palms.

She stroked the heavy crimson velvet of the bedcurtains. She rooted around in a chest that had once held Dru’s porcelain dolls, and now held weapons. Or sex toys, depending on the way your tastes ran. His blood, if it had been running, would have run cold. What idiot vampire allows a Slayer to chain him up naked, in a room full of weapons? But then she closed the chest: safe for now.

He moaned as she straightened up slowly, her tiny round arse high in the air, the smooth pink petals of her cunt glistening. She had in her hands a bottle of Holy Water, something he couldn’t recall ever acquiring. His breath, wholly unnecessary, stilled as she walked over to the bed. Her breasts were hidden beneath her long hair, a shame. But he could smell her, and could see how wet she was. He struggled against his restraints. He could break free, he knew. The bed was old and sturdy but wasn’t any match for vampire strength.

“Don’t,” she said, and he became still.

She crawled onto the bed, the bottle in her right hand. She rubbed herself along his thigh, and oh god, there was that heat again.

“Buffy, please,” he begged. “Let me taste you.”

“Shut up.”

She uncorked the bottle, slipped one small finger in. This was a game that Dru had liked to play, that she had learned from Angelus. It had turned the tips of her fingers raw and red, almost to the bone, as she painted his chest with blisters. Spike prepared himself for the hissing burn as the liquid met his flesh, but Buffy’s hand never tilted to let it pour over him. Instead, she brushed her lips to a wet shine and leaned down and kissed him, and he felt his own lips burning, felt the poison sting of her tongue against his, and the hurt, _oh_ , it was good. He rocked his hips up and felt more liquid

_(hot_ , how? _She shared with him her heat; without her he was just a cold thing, wasn't he? A dead thing -_

leak from the tip of his cock.

_but she had died, too. It's why she was here. The princess tumbled from the tower and woke up in a grave.)_

He groaned.

She moaned in response and with a shaking hand placed the bottle on the bedside table. Spike was almost disappointed — he would have accepted anything at her hand. If she’d told him to bathe in the stuff, he would have done it, singing for Queen and country all the while. Instead, she broke away gasping, her eyes bright, and straddled his thighs, spreading her own.

“Fuck,” he hissed.

She spread her lips and slipped two fingers inside, pumping them in and out, flicking her thumb along her clit, gasping. She made these tiny, whimpering sounds that reminded him of all the times he’d seen her cry. Better, though, to hear them this way. Her head was tossed back and with every thrust of her hips, the back of her hand grazed the base of his cock, his balls. He struggled against the headboard, and though it creaked, it didn’t break. He held himself back. If he thought he could come just by looking at her across the room, then this would surely be too much.

She cried out and hunched forward, biting her lip as she came. Her thumb kept moving on her clit haphazardly, her body jerking every now and then as she stroked herself down. He groaned in frustration; he was, impossibly, still hard, his cock swollen and dark. She looked up, wicked, licked her own fingers. He cursed.

She slid off the bed, walked leisurely in her boots around the room. Hopped into her skirt. Pulled her sweater over her head. Folded her jacket over her arm, and without looking back at him once, she left.


End file.
